sugar cobwebs
by plasmacandy
Summary: This foreign world is one of rights and wrongs. —Ren x Fabia


**||sugar cobwebs**

**||notes :: second try at second-person perspective; I wanted to write Ren/Fabia before it's canon (I'm also taking a break from my Fabia x 12 Orders collection, 'save us from the queen').**

**possible spoilers, I guess, idk 'cause I haven't watched past episode 3**

_**and I'm not going to**_**. :D Therefore OOC!ness is very likely.**

**And, and, I've realized this fandom is a CRUTCH for me. It's all too easy to write for it lately. -needs to branch out- **

…**I'm still kinda hiding. Uwah D:**

**And I've been working on my vagueness! The plotline of this can be summed up by this line: 'You are two people who were born to hate each other.' That's understandable, right? -is hopeful-**

.

Let's try again, you and I.

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..

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_—sugar cobwebs_

|this foreign world is one of **rights **and **wrongs**|

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..

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..

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We can wreck it all.

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You have grown up in the company of gilded-spined books and ballads sang in the shade of cherry-tree orchards, but the royal bliss of blended summers is more blessing than curse.

Because here you are, and here you are helpless.

You've learned nothing in the past sixteen years. Every silk-cushioned step you've taken, a palace attendant was there, holding your hand, singing to you in the tune of empty promises, protecting you from the harshness of real life.

Earth is not kind. It's big and cold and lonely, and traffic signals are your only lullabies.

You are not the sister to the queen here. You're just another nameless face, no one knows who you are -

.

except Ren.

Something is amiss in the way his eyes flicker over you like candlelight, how he traces your movements with complacent knowing (that veils unrest).

How, is all you can think.

What, is all you can say.

Nethean, he hisses the word like something vile, glaring at you like you're the cause of all pyramid-tiered ruin.

You straighten your spine, assuming a noble posture. And you tell him that he's wrong. It's not your people who are to be blamed.

How can he find fault in green-eyed honesty? You've grown up in the fragrance of mid-year's bittersweet fatigue, you've stood tall in furnished throne rooms, you've never had to avert your eyes from curtained scandals because there have never been any to avert your eyes from.

Your people are not in the wrong. They are good people, valiant-hearted; they sign all signatures with the binding ink of pin-pricked blood.

They are not in the wrong, and you never should have come here, to this stony planet where no one is there to defend you from echoing accusations.

The fiery hero-impersonator and the others look at you with scales covering their eyes. It is too late for them; they've been lost.

Ren smirks at you with twisted triumph.

.

His hands are rough like sharkskin when he grips your forearm; he's both fanged and winged (you've never been able to ward off creatures of the night).

Let me go, you shout.

Leave this planet, he says back in a stilted tone, damningly unwavering, fate equally sealed.

You lock eyes and the air becomes heavy with something indescribable.

Then you break free of his grip and run in the bats' shadows, cape fluttering in the corners of leaking sunlight.

.

The color gold is your least favorite.

You had known it all things affluent, a sign of wealth that glinted off your father's fingertips.

Now you know it as a snake's charm, deceit and vainness and breathless determination welded into one form of lustre. It's the color of the spots stitched into the darkness of your closed eyelids that flash with the whispered mantra -

Ren.

His name doesn't roll off the tongue in accordance with melted metals; it's a staccato syllable that is meant to be hurled like an insult, imbrued with the hatefulness of a thousand-year-rivalry.

Silver is more pleasant than gold, you think, and then chastise yourself for the absolute lack of a difference it makes.

.

You and Ren; neither are suited for Earth.

It's a miserable planet of discernment, one of rights and wrongs.

In this war, there is no right.

There's only spilled blood and rusted tears and the foolishness of naïve heartbeats. But —

You're wrong, you whisper.

You're wrong, he whispers back.

And the two of you walk away backwards looks and locked limbs, watching each other's shadows follow the gutter's path in a blatant admittance of distrust. You are two people who were born to hate each other.

Let's try again, you think. In another few billion light-years.

There are only so many dusty memories that one corner of the galaxy can hold.


End file.
